An IP-NFT is a crypto-economics/ web3 native legal contract that entail composability, programmability, and offer myriad uses cases that adheres to digitally-native or traditionally sensed rules around ownership, originality and reference points. A meta-data layer that utilize decentralized storage options can attest to any legality, ownership, and provenance the non-fungible in question interacts.

IPNFTs and SBTs will fight the death of NFTs.

People are making fun of him that he is using the Nick Land reference in an uninformed manner, and there is no way he could have read, for instance, Nick's ouevre, not excluding the Virulent Nihilism, which is a cringey point of view for myself.

Smoking is a sort of a prolonged self-asyphixation.

When you pay for Parsec, Nansen, Messari, and a couple of others just for analytics on a monthly basis, you have just paid for a monthly rent for a dublex condo in a state-of-the-art building partially glimpsing at Bosphorus, or Golden Horn at best.

The first version of the following post can be accessed via gemini://gemlog.blue/users/gokhan/1696188436.gmi on the gemini protocol

There is a chance that some of us will be outbidding to slay the moloch of aging, which is not a feature but a bug. For a species who are capable of leaving their home planet, which might or not be the Spaceship Earth, aging is a bug that be alleviated at first, and technologically abolished gradually.

TWAP, or TWAMM, it ain’t matter. Your psūkhḗ is tethered to an age of uncertainty across a modular time-making grift. You need to pay attention to the grifters. They accelerate the biological evolution under the cloak of a collective dawn of culturally-motivated evolution that is now botted by the art of advertisement that currently trail-blazes in a fashion reminiscent of the ugly æsthetics of Queer ‘20s. I’d rather prefer a shinier Roaring Twenties without any societal context thereof.

Sprites of an apple flickers across the horizon. horizon is a meme template. somebody is pouring a well-brewed specimen of relatively palatable coffee. nay, the skies are not made of caffeine. nor is cthulsavvah approaching from 6 o’clock. it is a brain mining mares to narrate a carrot-fueled conspiracy. fursonas everywhere, tentacles becoming selfie-sticks—which is fine by me. philantropist datahoarders knocking on your front door, if you have any: good afternoon sir! would you like to talk about our saviour the Helix? let us upload you to the noosphere. I mumble, I core, my gaze acts upon the hoarder as if I were a flock of sterlings. Sorry, starlings. You know, second language. I wonder at times when we are to be able to overcome this language acquisition puzzle. The door closes itself, locking out the hoarder out of my very own bubble. I wonder, you ponder. I invite the hoarder into this rental condo whose interior is an emulation of the actual TARDIS. No, I am not a Whovian.